Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.

Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.

Part Three: Hosea

11:11 AM, February 14th, 1885

"You alright?"

"Um… yeah. Yeah. You know me."

"No, you ain't. What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Don't give me that horseshit. Out with it!"

"Well… w–what would you say if… if…"

"Shhh. It's okay. Take your time."

"Well… what would you say if I was thinking of stepping out? On a… a permanent basis."

"Huh?"

"I mean–I know you got out once. So, you thin–"

"Ohhh. This about that Mary Gillis?"

"Hosea–"

"She giving you another ultimatum? Just wait her out, she always folds–"

"She ain't giving me an ultimatum."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"You–you really gonna do it?"

"I–she really wants it. Says she'd marry me."

"Hmm."

"You left once, with Bessie. How was it?"

"Hated every minute of it."

"Oh–"

"But…! Obviously, you ain't me."

"Y–yeah. So… what you think I should do?"

"It's your decision."

"Yeah, but what you think I should do?"

12:34 PM, July 16th, 1899

"Looking at this logically, that boy is fine. They took him to scare us. Nobody takes a boy to harm him."

"He's right John," Hosea said, holding a patient smile and a steady voice. He'd fucked up last night, let Arthur's death get to him. Forgot that other people in camp were feeling just what he was feeling. Forgot most of them weren't much more than kids. No more. If he could be anything, he'd be a hardwearing face and reassuring words. They needed him to be. He remembered back when Bessie died and he'd fallen apart. Spend the better part of a year down a bottle. Dutch or someone or other would find him in a bar at five in the morning, drunk out of his wits, whimpering and whispering her name again and again. Tilly was fifteen years old, having been raped since she was twelve–couldn't even read–although they were making progress on that. Think on that, Hosea, he thought, fifteen years old, after all she'd been through, and you was making her lug you outta saloons for months. Goddamn months. He swore to himself when he got sober for the first minute in over three hundred days: never again. He reminded himself of that now; don't go all emotional, stay firm. Be a hardwearing face and reassuring words. They need him to be. They were back at camp, now. He, Charles, and Lenny'd stayed back when the others went to Caliga Hall. You ask him, it was stupid, attracting more damn attention now. But at least Dutch seemed a little better now, a little calmer. That was usually how it went, how it had gone when Annabelle died; he lost his mind for a bit, killed a lot of people, then got it all out of his system.

"If I don't get him back, I'll–she'll kill us all," John said, reminding Hosea of his purpose.

"We'll get that boy back and go. Trust me–" Dutch started, only to be interrupted by Lenny's nervous and youthful declaration:

"Dutch! We got a problem here."

"Not a problem. Visitors. A solution." spoke the well-mannered, moralistic voice of Agent Milton. He stood out like a red fox in the snow; standing on the dirty-green grass, still wet with muddy dew, in his twenty-dollar wingtip gaiters. His fancy, creaseless suit clashed hilariously with Lenny's attire of a wrinkled white shirt smeared with sweat and blood (not Lenny's). Hosea's eyes fell on his partner who he had vague recollections of–perhaps from Blackwater. He wore an identical suit, but his tie was uneven and the wingtips on his collar were sloppily folded upwards so they prodded his neck. Hosea immediately liked him more. For a Pinkerton,

"Mr. Van der Linde. Mr. Matthews, I presume. And who are you?" Milton said, directing his ponder at John.

"Rip Van Winkle."

"Huh. Good day sir," he said, clearing his throat to address the whole gang. "Agent Milton, Pinkerton Detective Agency," he gestured toward his shabby shadow, "Agent Ross."

"And to what do we owe the pleasure, Agent Moron?" Dutch muttered, still sitting down, refusing to look at them, to acknowledge the power he knew they held over them.

"I'm not sure if you're aware," Milton began, "but this… this is a civilized land now. We didn't kill all them savages only to allow the likes of you to act like human dignity… and basic decency was outmoded or not yet invented. This thing?" he said, motioning toward the gang with hands in a semi-circle. "It's done."

Dutch finally rose, looking this prowler in the eyes. As though he could scare these men away by his sheer intensity alone. Hosea sighed. Dutch never understood that will is the same as power.

"This place," Dutch uttered, growing louder, displaying his hands in a mirrored semi-circle, "ain't no such thing as civilized. It's man so in love with greed he has forgotten himself and found only appetites."

"And as a consequence that lets you take what you please, kill whom you please, and hang the rest of us?" Milton said, his vehemence rivaling Dutch's. "Who made you the messiah to these lost souls you've led so horribly astray?"

"I'm nothing but a seeker, Mr. Milton."

"You ain't much of anything more than a killer, Mr. Van der Linde. But I came to make a deal," he said, addressing the gang once more, his desire to get the last word quenched, "it's time. You come with me and I give the rest of ya three days to run off, disappear and go and live like human beings some place else."

"You came for me? Risked life and limb in this den of lowlifes and murderers so that they might live and love?" Dutch remarked, chuckling, which elicited a chuckle from Javier and Bill.

"I don't want to kill all these folk, Dutch," Milton said, staring at him with a vigorous detestation. "Just you."

Dutch smirked, and as a result, Hosea rolled his eyes; he could smell some elaborate stunt brewing. God, it was like watching two schoolboys fight over a girl's panties.

"In that case, it'd be my honor to join you," Dutch said, placing his hands haphazardly in the air, closing the gap between himself and Milton, gazing around the ring of the Dutch Van der Linde Gang. "Excuse me, friends. I have an appointment to keep with–"

His words were drowned out by the satisfying click of twenty guns cocking in unison, Hosea's included–even if it was a pointless metaphor, he still agreed with the theme.

"I think your new friend should leave now, Dutch," Grimshaw rumbled menacingly.

"You're making a big mistake. All of you!" Milton pronounced, appearing on edge for the first time thus far. Hosea reckoned the possibility of getting shot and tossed in Flat Iron Lake was finally registering. Dutch fed off this fear, smiling like the Cheshire cat.

"Yeah… dreadful," he said sarcastically before his smile faded and his tone turned sincere. "We have got something. Something to live and die for. How awful for us, Mr. Milton. Stop. Following. Us. We'll be gone soon."

Milton straightened up, trying to stand taller than Dutch, finding his valor once again (perhaps it was in his ten-dollar pants). "I'm afraid I can't. And when I return," he said, speaking with more volume than ever before, making sure the gang heard this next part, imprinted it in their memories, "I'll be with fifty men. All of you will die. Run away from this place, you fools! Run!"

"Come on," Lenny said, reaching for Milton's hands, trying to lead him away from camp. The time for silly speeches was over.

"Get your damn hands off of me, boy," Milton said, yanking himself out of the young man's grasp. He stormed off, pushing through Molly and Micah, Ross close on his tail. Milton gave a final turn, shouting the only thing he'd say today that would affect Hosea.

"Couldn't help but notice Arthur Morgan couldn't attend this shindig, Dutch. What say you? He have something to live and die for? Besides you, of course."

This slapped the smug expression right off of their chieftain, who did nothing but helplessly leer at the men until they were out of sight.

"What now?" Charles asked.

"W–we get out of here. Quickly."

Hosea could feel it coming back now and he made his way toward the bliss of privacy at the lakeside, walking along the dock to its last wet-rotted plank of wood. You need to keep it together. Why did Milton's last attack on the gang cut so deep into Hosea's mind? He have something to live and die for? Besides you, of course. Hosea stood there, gaping into the shimmering blue waters for an immeasurable amount of time. He couldn't move. Guilt had an iron grip on his heart.

"Hosea?" a buoyant voice called out.

Hosea recognized it in an instant and replastered that phony serene smile. "Hey, Lenny. How ya doing?"

"I been better," the boy said, his face marred with a grim expression.

Hosea wanted to apologize for ignoring the camp's fearful murmurs, for denying them reassurance, but the Iron Grip held him tightly now and he couldn't breathe, let alone speak.

"I think I got an idea on what to do about those agents. Me and Arthur found a house, down by Saint Denis, hidden in the swamps. It's a big house over by Shady Belle. They'll find us eventually, but it should buy us a few days."

"That's… perfect," Hosea said, a great big grin overtaking his pathetic excuse for one.

"So… I should tell Dutch?" Lenny asked a hunger for approval seen clear as day in his eyes.

"Abso-fucking-lutely you should, if you'll pardon my cheese-eating surrender monkey."

A grin decorated Lenny's face too then, and he started running (althought skipping was probably a more accurate description) to Dutch before Hosea stopped him.

"Lenny. I want you to know: you're a good kid," Hosea said, before chuckling. "Except you ain't even a kid no more, is you? A man. A proper man you is. Don't forget it, and don't ask for my permission ever again. You're the smartest one here, Lenny. Smarter than me by miles. By states. Don't forget it."

Lenny gave him an eager nod, beaming with pride.

"Don't nod it. Say it."

"I'm the smartest one here," Lenny said.

"Alright, get lost," Hosea said, letting the boy go. "And don't go letting your head get bigger than Rhode Island, this gang can't take it. Especially with Dutch's vying with California."

Hosea followed shortly after, checking up with the gang, doing what he was supposed to be doing. Met up with Tilly and Karen packing up some of the wagons, right after giving Cain a biscuit, telling them to keep their chins up and tossed Karen a sly remark about Sean's return, which she scoffed at instantly. Afterward, he'd had a chat with Javier about what happened at Caliga Hall. It went about as he'd expected: they rode in six men strong, all fury, no plan (as he'd learned with Dutch, the plan was commonly no plan at all). Houses were burned down and a lot of people were killed, most deserving with perhaps a few innocents bespattered in there, as was their custom. Then, he'd spoken with a capless Micah–who'd lost his hat on the assault on Caliga Hall Hosea had wisely opted away from–for a few minutes, a Herculean feat, before jauntily leaving. Lastly, he spoke to who probably needed him the most: Jack's mother. Abigail stood by the scout fire at the edge of camp, apathetically ogling at the blaze. She cradled one of Jack's books in her hand; a Penny Dreadful Arthur had gifted to him.

Hosea considered his tactics carefully, before deciding to play things loose; she wouldn't want to be treated any differently now, it would only make the reality of her situation cut deeper.

"I think I'll put some coffee on, want some?" he asked casually, bending onto his knees, grabbing the coffee pot with one hand and the can of coffee beans with the other.

"No," he thought she whispered. He plopped a healthy scoop of the can into the silver pitcher and stuck it on the sizzling griddle over the fire. He made enough for two, hoping she'd have some. The woman looked like she needed it–looked like she hadn't slept for weeks.

"Hey, I've been thinking," Hosea began, "maybe I could try teaching you to read again? I know you didn't much care for it the first time. Nor second. Nor third. But I do think it'd rub off on you if you gave it another whirl. It'd be nice, give you something to do with the other girls–you know how much Mary-Beth likes to read. What do you think?"

"Maybe later," she murmured, her eyes still fixed upon the glowing cinders under the fire.

"C'mon…" he said, with the highest possible level of charisma he could inject into his voice, "it'd be fun! We can do it here, hell, we can start with that book you got there. Give it to me."

He stretched his hand out to her, patiently keeping it static while he waited for her to respond. She didn't.

"Abigail…" he purred, trying to coax her into it, "give me the book. Please."

"Stop."

"It won't do you any good just holding it"– torturing yourself–"c'mon, let's crack it open, together. It'll be fun."

"Stop!" She erupted, pulling away from him, finally looking at him, her blue eyes hard with hate. "I ain't gonna fucking read! I don't want to fucking read! What I want is my son back! I want the only thing I…" she trailed off, her blue eyes getting shiny, her whole body rattling with emotion. "F–fuck you! Fuck you, you codger! You–you widower, you! You…"

She scurried away then, shoving her hands against her face for dear life.

Where the hell was John? Why wasn't he here, comforting his girl? Poor woman looked so tired, so gaunt.

"Oh well, more for me!" came a devilish voice, appearing the moment Abigail had left like a vulture to the pickings.

Hosea sighed. Dear God, not him.

He spoke as he greedily poured the newly brewed coffee into his tin cup, sighing with delight: "Mmmm. I needed this. All that excitement with them fancypants pigs wore me all out."

"Is there anything that don't wear you all out?" Hosea asked, not really caring for the answer.

"Talking with you for one. 'Cuz you's offering such tremendously engaging conversation," Uncle said dryly, giving his cup a long cool blow before risking a sip.

"You know, you could help the women pack up. Dutch is shooting to Vamoose as soon as the boys get back. Unless, of course, you're busy doing something else."

"Y'know, you fellas really are something. Johnny gets a scratch on the face and everyone says 'oh, sit yourself down, honey; don't you even think about going nowhere,' but when old Uncle comes down with the worst case of lumbago anyone's ever seen, it's all 'move your hide ya lazy old coot!' I tell you: ain't no justice in this world no more."

"There you at, you lazy old coot!" the booming voice of Grimshaw hollered as she came over.

"Why do you hate me so, sir?" Uncle said, looking directly upwards.

"Thought you could get outta working, you old fart?" She asked, yanking the cup out of his hands and slowly spilling the contents over the fire, before stomping on the poor excuse for an inferno, fully exterminating it.

"Miss Grimshaw…" Uncle said enticingly. "If you want to get my attention, ya don't need the flamboyance… ya just need to drop your panties."

He finished with a vulgar, raunchy laugh that jiggled his tubby belly which transformed into a yelp of pain when Grimshaw bonked him on the head with his own cup.

"Yow!" He said, rubbing his head.

"Get your fat-ass up and start packing!"

"Okay. Okay." the codger said, rising in a hurry for a man with terminal lumbago. He scurried away before Hosea called him back, the curiosity outmatching his will to remain focused.

"Uncle!" He started, taking a long pause before continuing, "H–how was Arthur's funeral?"

Uncle's disposition turned rigid and earnest as he took his hat off, revealing his bald round head, and placed it to his chest.

"It was apt. Swanson gave a jumbled elegy, and Karen led everyone in some whore's dirge. We all swapped stories about how great he was, how much he'd done for us, etcetera. Mary-Beth and Kieran cried, Strauss left a nickel by his cross. It was very emotional; he would have hated it."

"Good," Hosea said, feeling the tickle of the Iron Grip inside him. He looked down at his coffee, suddenly loathing it; he wanted something stronger, needed it. He still drank occasionally, but moreso from habit rather than pleasure. This time it would be pleasure, pleasure of the deepest stalk. The urge passed over him and he took a breath. Hardwearing face and reassuring words.

He looked to his left, surprised to see Grimshaw shaken up; she was so damn cold he forgot sometimes how much she loved that boy.

"I remember when we was up in Nebraska. Was so damn cold I'd have icicles dripping down my thighs whenever I took a piss. Arthur's hands were so frozen he couldn't sleep, even with those fancy goatskin gloves he'd paid top dollar for, so he instead resorted to punching the fat oak tree outside camp at three in the morning until feeling returned to his fingers," She recollected before Hosea took over.

"But Tilly met up with us from Kansas, and the girl so much as said something like 'bit nippy out, huh?' and there was Arthur, handing over his cozy white gloves like they was a cigarette."

"That boy always was a giver, weren't he? Never wanted nothing for himself." Uncle said, completing their shared nostalgia.

Never wanted nothing for himself.

Hosea felt the Iron Grip in his chest squeeze tighter than it had ever squeezed. It was suffocating, unbearable. Sweat percolated through his shirt and he was soaked. It was like he was drowning. Drowning deep in the middle of the Pacific with a ball and chain strapped to his throat. The water was dark as night and he wasn't alone. He could feel other creatures down there with him, their gurgling and moans muffling the weak sound from his escaping bubbles. He watched them float up, not daring to look around, not daring to gaze at the hideous monstrosities that encircled him, smiling with yellow teeth and reaching to him with their long tentacle fingers. The bubbles went up, and he went down.

Down. Down. Down.

Besides Mr. West Dickens, is there a single side character in storytelling history better than Uncle? I think not.

Thanks again for reading. That'll be it for this week. Should have some more next week. Please: hold to chapter six if you can, it gets real good.